Special Delivery
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A post Who's Your Daddy fic.
1. Chapter 1

"So what was that all about up there?"

House was standing in the doorway to Cuddy's office.

An hour earlier, she had started to say something to him, changed her mind.

But she should've known he wouldn't let it go. House could never let anything go.

"Forget it. It was nothing, House," Cuddy said.

"It was obviously something," House said.

"A fleeting thought, that I immediately rejected. I'm allowed to have private thoughts, aren't I?"

"Yes. But this one wasn't private. It was in front of me. And it was, presumably, _about_ me."

"House, I assure you. It was no big deal"

He folded his arms.

"Seems to me that wanting me to father your child is a pretty big deal, Cuddy."

As ever, he was the soul of tact.

"First of all, get over yourself," Cuddy said, slightly annoyed that House was forcing her into this conversation. "Second of all, even if that was the case—I obviously came to my senses."

"Why? Because you were afraid I was going to say yes? . . . Or because you were afraid I was going to say no?"

She tried to read his face. He looked amused.

"_Would _you have said yes?"

"A _ha_! I knew it! You do want me to sperminate you!"

"No. . . I obviously don't. Otherwise, I would've asked."

There was a long silence.

"Well, I would've said yes, in case you were wondering," he said snippily.

"Shut up."

"I would've."

Cuddy felt like she was stepping in a minefield.

"Why?"

"Because, it's something you need. And something I have. A friend always helps a friend in need."

Cuddy snorted.

"Oh yeah, House. That's your life's motto."

"And I'm the perfect choice."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm tall, athletic—well used to be, at least. Incredibly good looking."

"Yes," Cuddy said, shaking her head. "Incredibly."

"Right. Plus, I'm very well endowed—intellectually speaking, that is."

"And the fact that you're a depressed drug addict?"

"Ouch," House said.

"I'm sorry. That was a low blow."

"I pop pills because I'm in pain. And it's fair to say I'd be a veritable ray of sunshine if I was pain-free, too."

"You forget, House. I knew you before the infarction, too."

"Okay, so I was never happy-go-lucky. You hate happy-go-lucky."

Was she in bizarro world? Was House actually trying to _convince_ her that he'd make a good father to her child?

"And the fact that we're colleagues. And. . .friends?"

"That's the beauty of it. I think you know me well enough to know that there is zero chance I'm going to want to be a part of this child's life. I'll merely donate the necessary fluids and get out of your way."

Cuddy was officially in a state of shock.

"This is a big deal, House. Have you really thought about this?"

"No, but it makes sense. And more importantly, I'll be saving you from making a baby with one those dimwits from the sperm bank."

"And you're not messing with me?"

"I'm not messing with you."

Since his eyes were usually dancing with mischief or mirth, it was clear when Gregory House was being serious. He was.

She sighed.

"I'll think about it, okay?"

"Okay. But the offer expires by midnight."

"What?"

"Just kidding. Take your time. But remember. It's your biological clock ticking, not mine."

#####

It was crazy, right? Not just because they were friends and colleagues. Not just because they had. . .history. But because he was House. Deeply damaged, drug-addled, irreparably screwed up House.

On the other hand, she loved him, in her own way. Always had. And she admired him, too. Plus, her own ego was substantial enough to marvel over the prospect of how brilliant, how attractive, how accomplished a kid of theirs could be. Combine their intellects and their good looks—with her raising the baby and maybe Uncle Wilson providing a solid male role model—and this child could be anything: A Nobel Prize winner, an astronaut, the president of the United States. . .

And although it wasn't guaranteed, of course, chromosomally-speaking, she was pretty sure that any baby of hers and House's would have the most remarkable blue eyes.. .

#####

Two nights later, at about 7:30, she wandered to his office.

"Still willing?" she asked tentatively.

"Still willing," he said firmly.

"Then okay."

"_Okay_?"

"Yes, okay, let's do it."

His eyes met hers.

"So what's the next step?" he said.

"The next step? I'm pretty sure you masturbate into a cup."

"I was thinking more along the lines of, your place or mine?" he said, with a sneaky grin.

Of course.

"We're not having sex, House."

"Why not? We've done it before. And I seem to recall that we were pretty good at it."

"I'm not going to use the conception of my child as an excuse for you to get down my pants."

"C'mon Cuddy. Isn't that was this whole thing is all really about?"

"Yes, House. You got me! My decision to have a child is all part of my master plan to have sex with you. All that consulting with a sperm bank stuff, hormone injections, torturously weighing my various options—just a smoke screen."

"I figured so much."

"Or, you know, I could've just _asked you to have sex_. Any time I wanted. Night or day."

"Valid point. . ." he said. "It just seems so unnecessary to conceive with a syringe on a cold metal table—when we could have so much fun doing it the old-fashioned way."

"I had no idea you were such a traditionalist, House," Cuddy said, with a smirk. "But I'll stick with wonders of modern science, thank you very much."

He sighed.

"You're such a killjoy, Cuddy."

"I know," she said, in mock sympathy. "So you'll masturbate into a cup for me?"

"It would be my honor to masturbate into a cup for you, Dr. Cuddy . . ."

"Thank you."

"Can I at least have a picture of you for inspiration? Wearing _a lot_ of clothing for a change. Just for once, I'd like to have to use my imagination."

"Cute, House."

#######

That Friday night, there was the annoying sound of a cane rapping impatiently at her door.

Why couldn't he just ring the bell like everyone else?

He was dressed in a gray wool overcoat and jeans, a scarf hanging loosely around his neck, holding a small picnic cooler.

"Special delivery!" he said.

She glanced at the cooler.

"That's not. . .?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Well, it's not a pizza," he said.

"How many times did you. . .?"

"Four samples. . ." He put on an extra macho voice: "But there's more where that came from, little lady."

Curiosity compelled her to open the cooler.

"Impressive House," she said.

"They didn't call me Jizm Joe at Michigan for nothing," he cracked.

She hesitated.

"Do you want to come in? Toast our impending adventure in insemination together?"

"I think you've got the order wrong. You're supposed to get me drunk first and _then_ get my sperm. . .But yeah, okay, sure."

He limped inside. Flopped onto the couch. He seemed to be in a very good mood.

She opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio with a corkscrew, poured two glasses.

"Here's to me not being able to drink this a few weeks from now," she said.

"I also brought a syringe," he said, patting his coat pocket. "We can expedite the process if you like."

"Thanks but I'll pass," she said dryly.

He grinned, took a swig of wine. "Okay, just offering. I am nothing if not a full service sperm donor."

She felt a sudden surge of affection toward him—although she probably shouldn't have trusted it. (Anytime she made the mistake of confusing House for an actual human being, she lived to regret it.)

Still. . .he had come, with his little cooler of sperm, his little jokes—expecting nothing in return.

"House. . . in all honesty, I just want to thank you for this. . .it's, well, it's one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me."

"And thank you for thinking I'm actually father material," he said sincerely.

And maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the kindness of his gesture, or maybe it was the fact that she hadn't had sex in 6 months. . .but she had in an incredible urge to kiss him right then and there.

But the thought scared the shit of her. She and House were already stepping into some seriously uncharted territory here. Throw sex into that mix? It could result in disaster.

"I should probably get going," he said, as if he had just read her mind.

"Okay," she said. "I'll see you at work? And I'll, uh, keep you posted."

He patted the cooler affectionately. "Goodbye, seed of Greg. Do me proud."

#######

She lay in bed that night thinking of babies with blue eyes and House in that sexy wool overcoat of his and the fact that his sperm was currently sitting on a shelf in her freezer.

She went to touch herself, then stopped. Instead, she picked up the phone—stared at it a second before dialing.

It was 12:45 a.m.

He answered groggily.

"Cuddy?"

"I can't sleep," she said.

"That sucks," he said, still not quite awake. "G'night. . ."

"I think I want to try it the old-fashioned way," she said.

That woke him up quickly.

"Right now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

She heard a click.

#####

He must've gone through all the red lights, because she had barely hung up the phone when he was at her front door. She answered it in a skimpy nightgown, didn't even bother to put on a robe. No point in pretending this was anything but what it was.

He tossed off his coat, letting it drop to heavily the floor.

"Take off your nightie," he ordered.

Obediently, she did. Got goose bumps, although it wasn't cold. (She may have set up this little booty call, but she was turned on that he was taking control of it.)

His eyes were trained on her naked body. He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, until he finally took his hands, slowly caressed her neck, then her breasts, then her hips. He pulled off her panties and his hand went between her legs.

She was totally wet—practically had been from the minute he'd asked her to remove her clothing. His own obvious arousal—he was rock hard under his jeans—made her that much turned on.

"C'mere," he said.

She moved closer and he picked her up. He was kissing her now, deep kisses that grew in intensity as he carried her to the couch. He unzipped his pants and then he was inside her, still kissing her and grinding her in a tantalizingly deliberate way—a slow, sweet torture.

"Harder House, harder!" she groaned, squeezing him tightly.

"Shhh," he whispered in her ear. "You're not my boss tonight."

Almost despite herself, her breathing got heavy, and she felt herself begin to quiver. Sensing she was about to come, he finally obliged her—grabbing her ass and digging in with more speed and pressure.

Her orgasm was so loud and high-pitched it would've embarrassed her if he hadn't looked so seriously turned on himself.

He had lost control now, too—a few more spasmodic thrusts of his hips and he moaned a bit, then his body went slack.

"Fuuuuck," he choked out.

He half-kissed, half-bit the bottom of her mouth and his lips, slightly chapped, just kind of stuck there. His movements were heavy and drowsy now—as though drunk from his own orgasm.

She kissed his chin and neck, rolled off him.

"That was, um, nice," she said, laughing at her own understatement.

"I hope you don't mind," he joked finally. "I forgot to wear a condom."

#####

Things went back to normal at work with one difference: When they were alone, House was strangely respectful. It was only when they were in front of Wilson or his team that he made the usual inappropriate sexual comments. And Cuddy realized that he didn't want anyone to be suspicious that they'd had sex. (Only House could make sexual harassment strangely. . .chivalrous.)

Three months later, she shared the news with him over the phone.

"I'm pregnant."

"Is it mine?"

"No, after you left that night, I called Mozart boy ...let him have a go at me. Of course, it's yours."

"The old-fashioned way. . .or were lab coats involved?"

"I'm happy to report that your sperm is still on ice."

"Well, be careful where you put it, it's obviously pretty powerful stuff," he bragged.

"So much for my plans to sell it on the black market," she cracked.

He laughed.

"Seriously Cuddy, I'm happy for you," he said.

"Thank you."

There was a long silence.

"I think we call this a pregnant pause," she said.

"I guess 'cause there's nothing left to say," he said.

She felt disappointed, but didn't exactly know why.

"No, I guess not. Anyway, just thought you'd want to know."

"Thank you," he said. "And good luck."

And that was that.

#####

A hundred and eighty-six days later, she went into labor.

Wilson called House at home.

"I just heard from Cuddy. She's on her way to the hospital," he said.

"And you're telling me this. . .why?"

"I thought you'd want to be there. . to support your friend."

"I'll send her a fruit basket."

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" Wilson said. "It's only the most important day of her life. I'll be in the waiting room if you change your mind."

"Don't bother saving me a seat."

#####

The annoying banging woke him. Wilson padded to his front door in his slippers and a robe, rubbing his eyes. It was 3 am.

What now?

House wobbled into the living room, holding his cane with two hands—an attempt to steady himself.

"You're drunk," Wilson said.

"And you wear old man pajamas," House said.

"What do you want, House?"

"How's Cuddy?"

So _that's_ what this little late night visit was all about.

"I'm happy to report that both baby and mother are doing just fine."

"What is it?"

"A boy."

"How big?"

"8 pounds, 6 ounces."

"Big boy," House said approvingly.

"Big boy," Wilson agreed.

"10 fingers?" he slurred. "10 toes? The works?"

"The works."

"And the name? Something pretentious I imagine, like Bartholomew or Ezra?"

"Samuel. . .Samuel Joseph Cuddy. She's calling him Sam for short."

"Sam," House said, nodding. "That's a good name. So. . .did she ask for me?"

"For _you_? No House. She had a few other things on her mind."

"Right. . .Of course."

He peered in the direction of Wilson's liquor cabinet.

"So what do you have to drink around this joint, Wilson? Shouldn't we toast the birth of this budding young mama's boy?"

"No House. You should leave and I should go back to bed. If you were so interested in the birth of Cuddy's son, you should've come to the hospital when I asked."

"A son," House repeated.

And smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I didn't give birth to these characters, I have merely adopted them.__  
><em>

He felt her weight underneath him, felt her touching his skin.

And with his eyes closed, he could still see her—her tangled hair, her parted lips, the bewitching curve of her hip.

"Cuddy," he groaned.

"Who's Cuddy?"

His eyes popped open.

_Shit._

"Nobody," he snapped. "I don't pay you for conversation."

The hooker looked at him, not without some pity.

"Darlin', we don't need to talk at all," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you knew who you were layin' with."

House sighed. Closed his eyes. Tried to conjure Cuddy again, but it was too late.

"We done here?" the hooker said in dismay. "Because you can call me Cuddy if it helps. Hell, you can call me George."

House grunted, kind of rolled off her.

"We're done," he said.

"You have to pay full price all the same," she warned.

House got his wallet, threw a few hundred dollar bills on the bed.

"You can show yourself out."

######

Now well into her seventh week of maternity leave, Cuddy had received lots of visitors: Her mother and sister, of course; Wilson, at least two times a week; several doctors and nurses from the hospital; even the members of House's team.

But not the father of her son.

When she had first made her arrangement with House, she had done so in good faith. She didn't want him to be part of Sam's life. He was horrible father material—surly, impatient, emotionally closed off. Who would want to introduce such darkness and cynicism to a small child?

But things had changed a little, she had to admit, the night they made love. It wasn't just that the sex was great. It was that she had seen a side of him she didn't know still existed—something downright tender.

Maybe House actually _could _be a good dad.

At the very least, she figured he'd want to lay eyes on his own son. Out of curiosity, if nothing else. She was insulted. On her behalf and on Sam's.

To make matters worse—and she couldn't believe she felt this way—she missed the bastard. At work they had found a kind of half-flirtatious, half-adversarial rhythm that she had come to relish. She missed the verbal sparring, the intellectual one-upmanship, the thrill of not knowing what outrageous thing he might do or say next.

And also, she really wanted to kiss him again. . .

She was having this thought—actually remembering the little shiver that went down her spine that night when they first kissed—when Sam woke up and began to cry—loudly.

Needy, she thought. Just like his father.

######

House flopped down with a thud on the couch in Wilson's office, put his feet up on the coffee table and waited.

"Yes?" Wilson said warily.

"Nothing. I'm just chillaxing."

"House, you don't come to my office to 'chillax.' You come because you want something from me. So spit it out."

"Wilson, you're so cynical. Can't one bro just hang out in the office of another bro without there being an agenda?"

"In your case, no. I have no food. I have no new woman in my life for you to obsess over. You can't be hiding out from Cuddy, because she still has a week left on her maternity leave. . .I'm officially stumped."

House yawned extravagantly, suggesting the very topic he was about to address already bored him: "Speaking of Cuddy, how is she? How's the kid?"

"You still haven't gone over there have you?" Wilson scolded. "What's your problem?"

"I've been busy. . . so what's the little rugrat like?"

"He's a baby, House. He eats, he poops, he sleeps."

"And Cuddy? Is she the soul of maternal serenity?"

"She's happy House. About everything except for fact that you haven't visited her yet. If you don't watch out, you're going to lose a friend."

"She's not my friend. She's my boss."

"Yeah, _right_ . . Look, I know it's tough for you to see Cuddy mothering somebody other than yourself. But you need to grow up, be a man, buy a stuffed bunny rabbit, and get your ass over there."

"Did any of your dead cancer kids happen to leave behind any stuffed animals? Would save me a trip to the gift shop."

"Get out of my office, House."

######

"Faster, faster, faster!"

Little Sam was on his bicycle and he was attempting to pedal for the first time on his own.

The sun was so bright, House could barely see him—he squinted into the bleached-out street.

"Daddy, I'm scared!"

"No fear, Sam! No fear!"

"But Daddy, help me. . ."

"Faster Sam! Pedal faster! Be stronger!"

The little boy pedaled, his chubby legs pumping as quickly as possible.

House blinked into the sun. He couldn't really see what was happening. Suddenly, there was a crashing sound, then the sound of a child crying hysterically, then a viciously red pool of blood.

"Sam, I'm coming! I'm coming!"

But House couldn't run, couldn't move his legs at all, couldn't get to his son.

"_Saaaaaaam!_"

He woke up.

######

Wilson never came to Cuddy's house empty handed—and tonight was no exception. He was carrying a little plastic bat and nerf baseball.

"If he's going to play center field for the Yankees, he needs to start soon," he cracked.

Cuddy smiled, gave Wilson a warm kiss on the cheek. He had really been her rock lately.

"Thanks Wilson."

She picked up Sam, who had been lying in his bassinet.

"You want to hold him?" she said.

"Sure," he said, scooping the baby up deftly—already an expert.

He looked down at Sam, who was practically asleep, his big blue eyes at half-mast, his long dark lashes fluttering slightly.

"He has his father's eyes," Wilson said.

Cuddy looked startled. "You mean his mother's eyes," she replied hastily.

"No, I mean his father's."

Cuddy stared at him, trying to see if he was bluffing.

"Wilson, you know I don't know who the father is."

"I think you do," Wilson said.

And with that, Sam made a gurgling sound and spit up on Wilson's shoulder.

"And he has his father's sense of timing," Wilson said, laughing.

Cuddy shook her head.

"House told you?"

"He didn't have to. . .It's all over his face every time he asks about Sam. And the fact that he hasn't come to visit you is a dead giveaway. Avoidance is House's middle name."

Cuddy sighed. She got a sponge from the kitchen and began wiping off Wilson's lapel.

"Well, if someone has to know, I'm glad it's you, but it can't leave this room. I'm not even planning on telling Sam."

"Of course not," Wilson said. "But Cuddy, did you really think this through? House has some rather strong features—and I don't just mean physically. Don't you think people will suspect when the little guy starts solving Pythagorean Theorems and having existential crises at the age of 8?"

"No! People aren't that perceptive. And besides, even if they did, let them talk. Nobody would dare ask me about it."

"And what about your friendship with him? It seems to have already taken its toll."

"I sort of figured House was such a cold customer, the presence of his child in my life wouldn't matter one way or the other," she said. "Turns out, I was wrong."

"So what are you going to do?"

Cuddy shook her head.

"I honestly don't know."

Wilson looked down at Sam for a second, picked up one of his perfect little toes.

He hesitated before asking: "And how did you two conceive this adorable creature? In a laboratory? Or did House get you drunk?"

Cuddy gave a knowing smile. "None of your business, Uncle Wilson," she said, and gave him an affectionate pat on the arm.

######

After Wilson left, she called House.

"Wilson knows."

"What? How?"

"Because, in your attempt to be incredibly inconspicuous, you were, in fact, being incredibly conspicuous."

"Shit."

"Yeah. . .shit."

"What did he say?"

"He thinks everyone's going to figure it out."

"No way!" House said. "He gives people way too much credit. Most people still think Harry is Prince Charles' son."

"That's what I said. . . .House?"

"Yes Cuddy?"

"Why _haven't_ you come to visit?. ..If not to meet Sam, at least to see me?"

"I've been busy," he muttered unconvincingly.

"Did you at least get the picture I emailed you?"

"Yeah," he said.

"And what do you think?"

"That he looks like a baby."

######

About 10:30 that night, there was a loud banging on her front door.

_You've got to be kidding me. _

Cuddy got out of bed—this time she _did_ put on a robe—and didn't even bother asking who it was. She let House in.

"I didn't mean _tonight_," she said, shaking her head.

"No time like the present!" he said brightly.

"Sam's asleep. . .and so was I, genius."

"Sorry."

House looked at his watch, genuinely surprised that it was so late.

He gave a sheepish smile.

"You look good, Cuddy. Motherhood agrees with you."

"Shut up, House. I look a mess."

She self-consciously ran her hand through her hair, an attempt to smooth it. Gave it up as a lost cause.

"So. . .you want to see him?"

"Okay," he said, somewhat nervously.

She led House into the nursery. He peered into the crib.

"It's a baby alright," he said, but he wouldn't stop staring.

Cuddy put her hand on House's shoulder, peered in with him.

"We did good, House."

"Time will tell," he shrugged.

"You want to hold him?"

"He's asleep."

"He won't wake up," she promised. She reached into the crib, picked up Sam, who stirred a bit as she placed him in House's arms.

Unlike Wilson, House looked stiff and uncomfortable—as if he was afraid he might break the child in two.

"You need to smell his head," she said. "He has the most intoxicating smell."

"I'll pass," House said.

"Your loss."

Sam woke for a second, gave a little gurgly cry, and fell back to sleep.

"He was happier before," House said.

"He's fine, House. Relax."

She looked at him.

"I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some?"

The tea was a bit of an excuse. She wanted House to have a minute alone with his son.

"Tea? Who do you think I am? Wilson?"

Cuddy laughed. "I'll see if I have any beer."

She left the nursery. Checked the fridge—a half open bottle of chardonnay, no beer. She boiled water for tea, poured House a glass of wine.

She made her way back to the nursery, peered in. House was still holding Sam. He was smelling his head.

######

Two things changed the following week: Cuddy went back to work and House started stopping by almost every night.

He never brought Sam a gift. Never cooed at him. Never said any of the things other people said: "He's such a big boy. . ." "He's so adorable . . ." "He has your eyes. . ."

But he kept showing up—and it was beginning to feel a little bit like they were a family.

Of course, Cuddy had her classic Houseian ambivalence about the whole thing. She knew too much togetherness was not in the game plan—and could be confusing for both her and House (and eventually even for Sam). But every time he showed up—always unannounced, of course, with a loud, obnoxious rap at the door—she felt this little, undeniable rush.

"He likes you," she said one night, as House sat on the couch with Sam in his arms.

He sneered at her: "He doesn't _like_ anyone. He doesn't have any thoughts, any personal attachments. He's just a giant cesspool of need."

"Yes," Cuddy said. "Giant Cesspool of Need was one of the names I considered giving him. But I decided Sam was easier to spell."

"Very funny."

"All I can say is, he tends to fall asleep in your arms—and he seems to stop crying when you hold him. There might be some biological bonding mechanism at work—surely you don't dismiss that."

"What? You're saying I smell like Daddy to him?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"Gimme a break."

"Well, it just so happens that he's fallen asleep in your arms. _Again_. But I'm sure it's just a coincidence. . ."

She looked at her beautiful sleeping boy in the arms of his beautifully damaged father and felt a sense of longing she hadn't experienced in months.

She took Sam from House, put him in his crib and came back to the living room.

"I had my post-natal exam last week," she said sheepishly. "The doctor said I could have sex again."

House looked at her. Cocked an eyebrow.

"And you're telling me this because. . . "

"Because I'm in the mood. To have sex."

He just kept staring.

"With _you_. Do I really need to spell it out?"

She stood in front of him, leaned down, kissed him on the lips. He kissed back, cautiously, his hands resting on her waist.

She kissed him harder and he was clearly beginning to get into it—his tongue was in her mouth, his hands around her waist gripped tighter—when he abruptly stopped, stood up.

"I can't," he said.

"You're turning down casual sex?"

He got his coat, started walking toward the door.

"There's nothing casual about it," he muttered.

######

In House's dream, the three of them—House, Sam, and Cuddy—were sitting around the dinner table eating spaghetti.

"What did you learn today in pre-school?" Cuddy asked Sam.

"Forget that," House said, with a proud grin. "Watch this!"

He turned to his son.

"Sam, what are the four main parts of the heart?"

"Right ventricle," the little boy said. "Left ventricle. Right atrium, left atrium."

"Very good!"

"And what does the gallbladder do?"  
>"It helps you digest fat!"<p>

House beamed at Cuddy, who stared in amazement.

"And how many bones are there in the human hand?"

"27!" Sam said triumphantly.

"That's my boy!" House said, holding up his hand for a slap. But just as the little boy was about to slap back, there was the sound of a key in the door.

A man entered the room, dressed in a business suit, with a briefcase. He looked vaguely like Wilson.

"Daddy's home! Daddy's home!" Sam yelled and sprang up from the table to give his father a hug.

######

"House is being weird again," Cuddy sighed to Wilson.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

They were in the hospital cafeteria having lunch. Cuddy kept glancing nervously at the door to see if House was coming, although she knew the odds were slim. It was noon. He had probably just finished breakfast.

"He stopped visiting me and Sam."

"Did anything happen to prompt that change?"

"No," Cuddy said, poking at her couscous.

"You sure?"

"Well, um, I guess I did kind of make a pass at him."

Wilson practically choked on his turkey sandwich. "You what?"

"Remember when you asked me how House and I made Sam? Well, we did it the old fashioned way."

Wilson's face turned a bit red.

"You're kidding," he said.

"Definitely _not_ kidding," she said. "And you know how once you've _gone there_, you're probably going to go there again. Unless the sex was horrible. Which it, uh, wasn't.'

"Spare me the details."

She looked at him.

"So I was in the mood. . .so I asked."

"And you're telling me he turned you down?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"He takes a lot of vicodin, Cuddy. Maybe he just couldn't. . . perform."

Cuddy laughed. "I'm fairly certain that wasn't the problem."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. I think he freaked out. I think the whole scene was just a little too _domestic_ for him. Me, the baby, sex. I assured him that it was just casual and he said, 'There's nothing casual about it.'"

"Well, I guess you have your answer. He has feelings for you, Cuddy. It was all fine and good last year—just a little forbidden roll in the hay with a sexy coworker. Now he's been spending time with you and Sam. He's invested."

"So you're saying he likes me _too much_ to have sex with me?"

"Something like that."

Cuddy shook her head. "Men."

######

At the end of the day, she mustered up the courage to go to House's office.

He was looking at something on his computer screen—porn, if she knew him—and he hastily closed his laptop when he saw her.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said back.

"Look, House. . .I hope I didn't freak you out too much the other night."

"You didn't freak me out," he said.

"I obviously did. You haven't been over at my place in almost 2 weeks."

"I've been. . ."

"I know. . . you've been busy."

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"It was presumptuous of me to assume you wanted to be with me like that. I apologize."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Of course I want to be with you like that. It's just that. . ."

He looked down at his desk.

"That what?"

"Forget it."

"Oh nooo," she said angrily. "You don't get to not tell me what you're feeling. A year ago, I didn't have that choice. Fair is fair."

He rubbed his chin, looked at her..

"It's just that it was all beginning to feel a little too . . . _real_."

So Wilson was right.

"Us having sex doesn't mean I was going to ask you to move in with me or become Sam's father."

"I'm not saying it did. . ." his voice trailed off.

"Then what, House? Say it!"

He inhaled, looked like he was bracing himself for a physical blow.

"What if I _do_ want to be part of Sam's life? What if I really do want to be his father?"

Cuddy felt a sudden need to sit. She slumped into the chair across from House's desk.

"Now who's freaked out?" he said.

"I'm not freaked out," she lied. "I'm just . . . processing. So you're saying you want to help raise him?"

"Yes."

"And tell everyone in the hospital that he's your son?"

"Right."

"Wow. That's . . .unexpected."

"I've actually given it a lot of thought," he said.

"House, you've never so much as changed Sam's diaper. Are you sure you're ready to take on the responsibilities of fatherhood?"

"I'm 47, Cuddy. Not 18. I think I can handle it."

"Can I ask why the sudden change of heart?"

"He's my kid. That biological bonding stuff you were talking about. . .it goes both ways."

She hesitated.

"But you don't even like children," she said.

"I don't like other peoples children. I like mine. Ours."

Cuddy tried to keep her head clear, but hearing him refer to Sam as "ours" was making it tough.

Part of her felt like House was saying the very words she had secretly longed to hear since the day she found out she was pregnant. Another part of her knew what a dangerous path she was being led down. He was still House. He was still an emotional wreck. And this was her son they were talking about.

"So what's next?" House asked, looking at her expectantly.

"Next . . . I go home and think about this, House. It's a lot to digest."

"Take your time," he said. "Well, not too much time . . .I don't want the kid thinking Wilson is his father."

Cuddy gave a small laugh, stood to leave.

"You can go back to your porn now," she said.

"It's not porn."

"What is it?"

He swung the screen around to show her what he'd been looking at.

It was the picture she had sent him of Sam.

######

Two nights later, she called him.

"Come over, let's talk."

He was there almost as quickly as the night she had made that fateful bootie call.

"I've made a decision," she said. "I want you to be in Sam's life. . .as his father."

He exhaled a bit.

"Thank you."

He wasn't smiling. It was almost like he was trying to show her just how seriously he took his newfound responsibility.

"But you can't flake out on me House. Once you agree to this, there's no turning back."

"I know Cuddy," he said. "I had a lousy father. I know all about lousy fathers. I'm not going to be one."

"Okay," she said.

"C'mere," he said.

She shuffled toward him reluctantly. He put his arms around her, held her tightly. He pushed the hair off her face, kissed her forehead. His lips lingered for a bit, then he kissed her cheekbone, her eye lid.

"House," she said, almost a warning.

"Cuddy," he said, imitating her stern tone of voice. He kissed her neck, then his mouth found hers.

"What about things being too real?" she asked, not able to keep herself from kissing him back.

"I like real."

He kissed her mouth harder this time and his hands began reaching under her shirt, to the bare skin of her back and shoulders.

"Don't you think we should. . .?"

"You feel too good to stop," he said, somewhat furtively. His hands had now reached her breasts.

"So do you," she admitted.

So they were going to have sex, after all. . .but as what? Friends with benefits? _Parents_ with benefits? An actual couple?

Screw it, she thought, as they made their way to the bedroom. Tomorrow she'd sort things out. Tonight, she just wanted House's hands all over her.

When they were through, he didn't get up and leave, as she thought he might, but fell asleep, his arm draped across her.

A few hours later, Sam started to cry.

Much to her amazement, House sat up in bed.

"I got this," he said. He stood, fumbled for his cane in the dark, limped into the nursery.

And that night, for the first time, Dr. Gregory House changed his son's diaper.

THE END


End file.
